Scott Jr Vs The League of Possible Fathers!
by timelucked
Summary: Scott Ramone Pilgrim. A regular kid. Until a band of evil-doers enter his life in an unorthodox way.  "Y'know, the league?" at the look of confusion, he said. "Sent to kill you because you could possibly be our son?" Like father, like son.
1. Round 1: Home

"...and that's how you came into existence!" a proud father exclaimed by the finish of his story; nodding happily at his wife who stood curled against the frame to their sons room, blithely shrugging.

The son, a near copy of the older man save for the ever-changing hair style, scooted up on his elbows to comfortably rest while granting his father a quizzically skeptical look.

"So... you mean to tell me," his head swayed from side-to-side with each word. "that in order to get with mommy, _Dad_, you had to battle seven evil people, then get with her, but _not_ before having to go through _another_ epic battle sequence?"

"Against the Koopa King!"

His son shot him a disbelieving and sardonic look.

"It's true!" he pouted with folded arms childishly. "Have I ever lied to you?"

Scott Jr. perked up instantly.

"As a matter of fact, _Dad_, you have,"

The senior blanched and managed to stutter out a, "Wh-wh-when?"

"You said Santa was real." his lips thinned as if that would make his point stronger.

"Santa _is_ real," the older Scott stated in happy obliviousness, hair flipping up as he gave a slight bounce.

At the tension-filled silence – brought about from Ramona's flaring at their son and the apprehensive waiting for realization to dawn on her husband – Scott slammed his hands against the Hyrulean comforter he sat upon.

Voice cracking, he yelled to his beloved, "HE'S NOT?"

The short, blue-haired-for-the-moment woman gave a strong, pointed stare to her son who simply shrugged and rolled his eyes in a "what the hell just happened?" manner. His father sat curled into a dejected ball in the corner, a shadow of doom enshrouding him.

"I'm... going to bed now..." he flipped over and drew the covers over his chin.

"Good night!" his dad popped up with a wave, shuffling to place his arm around his wife's extended waist.

Shaking her head, she dragged the swift mood-changer along for bed.

Tucked in tight, thoughts of Power-Ups and dreams of slaying zombies in his head, he slept peacefully.

* * *

"Scoot, get up. You're going to be late!" his mother called over the sizzle of bacon, using his nickname to differentiate and so as not to confuse the slumbering and roused Scott's.

Shooting up in a straight, his body a perfect right angle, the younger opened groggy eyes to the sight of a cluttered room, with variously placed video game posters, comics, and action figures strewn about. Kicking off his sheets and Pokemon sleep boxers together, he tripped over his first obstacle – light-up shoes – while masterfully jumping over other items like toy hurdles With each lunge, he head the theme for when Mario jumped.

Letting the water run as he "brushed" his teeth for all of two seconds, he tossed the plastic utensil behind his back. He pulled a Kingdom Hearts T-shirt over his head roughly and, upon seeing his disheveled reflection, mussed his own cobalt and sapphire-highlighted hair into a self-spiked disarray. Just the way he liked. As he rummaged around for necessary accessories, his slightly ajar door opened all the way, revealing a distracted mother.

"MOM!" he shrieked, legs futilely attempting to cover himself, arm extended as if to halt her approach.

"Oh geez!" she quickly closed the door, head bowed.

"God! At least wait till I put my pants on, Mom!" he cried out to her.

"Well we wouldn't be having this problem if you'd just hurry up." she told him as she heard the hushed rustle going over thin legs. "Don't forget your underwear..."

At that, he cringed, dropping his clutched pants to gingerly creep to a pair of underpants. Dirty –_ but_ they worked well enough for the moment. He grabbed the waistband of his jeans and shot them up his legs, giving himself a much-too uncomfortable wedgie. He righted himself and hightailed out of his washroom.

Nearly slipping on the wooden stair case, he managed to greet his father; eat his meal; half escape a kiss from mother, and bone-crushing hug from father; _and_ get on his bus unscathed.


	2. Round 2: Matthew Patel

School passed in a blur of uneventfulness. The the girls in his class and the class above came to him like always, engaging him in unentertaining chatter. And like usual, he turned his face away, resting chin and cheek in hand, ignoring them. Shuffling away sadly, he rolled his eyes at their desperate behavior. In gym class, however, things picked up – in a speed he was unfamiliar with.

"_YOUNGGGG PILLLLLGRIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" _an accented voice from nowhere shouted as a giant crash sent screaming children scattering to safety like roaches.

A hole in the cemented ceiling appeared and framed within it was the form of a man, shooting towards Scott Jr. as fast as a bullet. Eyes slanted in crazed rage, his skin was as dark as rust, with thick angered eyebrows. As clothes, he wore a striped shirt, shrouded in a beige jacket, puke-green slacks, and Doc Martens on his feet. He glared down, levitating before the young boy fifteen feet above him.

Shouting, he said, "Prepareeeeeeee yourselfffffffff!"

He rocketed toward the wide-eyed child, a wild fire danced in Scott's chocolate eyes but before the impact of this strangers body hit him, he raised his hand to halt him. Looking at it oddly, he sniffed the hand before his face, dropping to the floor and tapping his foot in impatience.

"What is going on?" braced in a fighting stance immediately preparing for an onslaught, he asked.

"Didn't... you get... my eMail?" the opponent intoned softly, head cocked to the side questioningly.

Scott Jr.'s face deadpanned.

"I'm a seven year old kid – why would I have an eMail?"

Spinning around on his heel, turning his back to the astounded child, he placed his chin between a stroking forefinger and thumb.

"Then who did I …?" he turned sharply, again, accusingly pointing his other finger. "NOOOO MATTER! We must due –"

His command was silenced as Scott engaged himself in combat. His audience gathered, shivering behind the mats as faux barricades from the chill of Canadian air and out of fear. Kicking and clawing, scratching and slapping, Scott hacked away at his enemy, mouth frowned in concentration, sweat dotting his brow. He licked his lips, whitening his puffier lower lip with his teeth.

Delivering a starting punch, the rest of his hasty hits sent them both into the air by pure force. Landing a thirty-eight – sixty-four! - hit combo, the number echoed through the gymnasium. Taking a moment, he recovered his sense and glanced around seeing the schools computer-technical teacher boasting into the speaker system. Scott Jr. shook himself out as he saw the dark-skinned pest start to come to himself.

Drawing his small fist back, furrowed brows, slanted in concentration again, he used all his strength to punch his victim, his face curling around the appendage, nose giving an audible crunch.

"Not … again," he spoke feebly, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he fell back in a splash of coins.

"Huh" Scott's brow quirked, mouth raised in astounded questioning. He began to float down.

"KO, KO, KO!" Mr. Alexander boomed in echo inside the controls box.

Picking up the change, he examined the one royal British coin and counted out the remaining dollar in assorted quarters, nickles, dimes, and useless pennies. With Scott's eyes half-lidded in attitude, he exhaled in exasperation causing his bangs to fly up. The student body came closer and with slow, scared movements, but Scott raced out of there before anyone could confront him or hear about the gossip sure to spread. No doubt he would never hear the end of it tomorrow.


End file.
